


Dreadful Hour

by Ariel_Tempest



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, Food, Gen, Insomnia, no nutritional value
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: Death makes equals of us all. The same can be said of insomnia.orThomas and Lady Mary find something to agree on.





	Dreadful Hour

**Author's Note:**

> This is really more of a scene than an actual story. It is set at the same hour it was conceived and written and is probably funniest if read at that time period, assuming you are unfortunate enough to be awake.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Once, twice, three times, and it fell silent.

In his bedroom in the attic, lying in the almost perfect darkness, Thomas Barrow swore into his pillow. He wasn't certain when he'd woken up. Logic dictated that it had to be in the past half hour since he'd not heard the two thirty chime, but for all he knew it had been two thirty one. He closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that he wasn't actually awake. Unfortunately, that last cup of tea before bed had perhaps not been the wisest choice, and so with utmost reluctance he fumbled the lamp on and crawled out of bed. He immediately sought out his dressing gown. It didn't matter that it was nearly summer, this far from dawn it was decidedly chilly.

Careful not to wake anyone else on the floor, he made his way to the bathroom. Once he'd relieved himself, he turned automatically back to his room, but then stopped as his stomach rumbled. After a moment's consideration, he decided that he was too hungry to fall back asleep and rather than go over to the women's side and get hit between the eyes with the rolling pin he was certain Mrs. Patmore kept under her pillow in case of burglary, he decided to make his way down to the kitchen himself. If nothing else, he could have toast. No matter how much Mrs. Patmore hated it, the new electric toaster was terribly convenient for late night snacking (or, he supposed, early morning snacking), much nicer than the old toasting fork method.

If there was one thing Thomas missed about the Stiles' house it was the comparative lack of stairs. It was about the only thing he missed, of course, although Mrs. Stiles had been nice enough. As he reached the third flight, however, he felt a decided pang of longing for the ability to make it from his room to the kitchen with half the effort. He paused at the landing and contemplated whether or not he was really that hungry, but since he was most of the way down already he kept going. 

To his surprise, there was a light on in the kitchen already. He stopped in the hallway for a minute and frowned at it, trying to puzzle through who in the devil would be up at this hour. The maids weren't due to start their morning routine for a couple of hours and Daisy shouldn't be warming the oven yet either. The hall boys should have turned in by now. On the other hand, he didn't know why a burglar would risk turning on the lights or why one would be robbing the kitchen, so with a befuddled, sleepy sort of curiosity, he showed himself to the kitchen door and peered in. 

A burglar might have surprised him less. "Lady Mary?"

The lady in question was standing by the stove, a cast iron skillet in one hand and a spatula in the other. At the sound of his voice, she turned and blinked at him in a groggy sort of manner. Almost as an after thought she smiled. "Oh, hello, Barrow. I didn't think anyone would be up."

"Well, I normally wouldn't be," Thomas confessed, still a bit off balance at finding his employer's eldest daughter, next in line to run Downton and hang what the inheritance laws said, cooking. "But I woke up and was a bit peckish, so I thought I would make myself a bit of toast. And you?" The question might have been deemed impertinent, but Thomas was too tired to be overly fussed with that.

"The same, really, except that I don't know how to make toast, so I'm scrambling an egg."

That was fair, Thomas supposed, although if you'd told him in the light of day that Lady Mary could scramble eggs he'd have never believed you. Regardless, as she hadn't taken him to task for his presence he shuffled over, retrieved the bread knife, and started to slice himself off a piece. "Would you like me to make you a slice or two, m'lady?" he asked as it occurred to him that would probably be polite.

"Hm?" Lady Mary turned and blinked at him. Then the words seemed to sink in and, with a thoughtful frown, she said, "Oh, yes, actually. That would be quite nice, thank you." She stirred her egg a couple of more times, then offered, "Would you like an egg?"

Thomas hesitated over that one. On the one hand, yes, he would. On the other hand, even half asleep we wasn't at all certain it was proper for her, of all people, to make him one. Of course, she had offered, so it might be rude to say no. He finally settled on, "Yes, please, if you like," and asked if she liked her toast thick or thin.

"Thin," she yawned, scraping her egg out onto a plate and going for another. "And dry."

"Think I can manage that," he muttered, frowning at the toaster as he sliced off a second piece of toast. He started by toasting his own piece, reasoning that he was more likely to burn that one. When he succeeded there, he toasted hers. He spent enough time fussing over the toaster, trying to coax his sleepy brain into remembering how the thing worked, that by the time the toast was done, so was his egg. 

Lady Mary, of course, took Mrs. Patmore's chair and pulled it up to the long table. At roughly seven and a half months pregnant, it didn't look comfortable, but then again, neither had standing. Thomas stood on the other side of the table from her, trying to use his toast to shovel up his eggs as neatly as possible. It would have been much easier sitting.

"Why does three am exist?" Lady Mary sighed between slightly-less-dainty than usual mouthfuls of food. "It really is an abysmal hour."

"I have no idea, m'lady, except to put some distance between two and four," Thomas replied. It suddenly occurred to him that he had access to the silver pantry and could easily get them utensils. "Um. Should I get you a fork?"

"Hm? Oh, no need. I'll manage well enough with the bread." She took a couple more bites, then went back to complaining. "Three am really should be outlawed, don't you think?"

"It should," Thomas agreed, smirking as he worked another mouthful together on his plate. "Someone should write parliament. Tell them to make themselves useful and get on that."

Lady Mary laughed at that. "Oh dear me, no. They could never do that, it sounds too much like work." The two of them finished eating in silence, then stood and faced the quandary of empty plates. "I suppose Mrs. Patmore will be livid if we don't wash these."

"She'll be livid if I don't wash them," Thomas corrected, covering a yawn. "She'd never expect it of you."

"Well then, just leave them here and if she yells, tell her to come talk to me." Piece said, Lady Mary unceremoniously placed her dishes in the sink and turned to leave the room. "Goodnight, Barrow. I hope you get back to sleep."

"Goodnight, m'lady," Thomas smiled, placing his dishes along side hers, "And the same." He looked at the dishes and contemplated washing them anyway, but he didn't want to and was tired enough he felt like he might drop one. Mrs. Patmore would really murder him if he did that. So he simply yawned, turned out the lights, and dragged himself back upstairs.


End file.
